No Other Choice
by Antigone1
Summary: Obi-Wan is faced with one of the most difficult trials in his life. Will he go it alone, or admit what he's doing to Qui-Gon?
1. Bad Night

Title: No Other Choice  
  
Author: Antigone  
  
Spoilers: None  
  
Timeline: Obi is 18  
  
Feedback: Yes please!  
  
Summery: Obi-Wan is faced with one of the most difficult trials in his life. Will he go it alone,  
  
or admit what he's doing to Qui-Gon?  
  
Disclaimer: Uhuh, I own them. I own them and the billions of dollars which come with them. That's exactly why I write fanfiction…(sarcasm…don't own 'em, never will…sigh)  
  
  
  
  
  
Sith! Not again!  
  
Obi-Wan lay huddled on his small sleep couch wrapped tightly in a cocoon of thin sheets, a light coating of sweat clinging to his tense features. He curled in upon himself and released a hushed moan as another wave of nausea passed over him, this one stronger than the last.  
  
He gritted his teeth and waited it out. When the agony was over, Obi-Wan released the breath he didn't realize he was holding and relaxed for a moment. He inhaled deeply and ran a hand over his moist forehead, bringing it down across his face and sighing.  
  
This scene was repeated after every visit Obi-Wan made to the small establishment a few levels below the Temple. Cold sweats, nausea, vomiting…was it really worth it?  
  
Yes.  
  
Yes, of course it was worth it. The benefits outweighed what he was suffering right now. After all, it would all be over in a little while.  
  
But not right now, he reminded himself as he lifted his body from the cool, slightly damp sheets. The previous nausea episode had passed, but he didn't trust himself to successfully defend against another. Obi-Wan made the short journey to the 'fresher on unsteady legs, groping out blindly for anything that might keep him upright until he could unceremoniously collapse in front of the durasteel toilet.  
  
The only thing that Obi-Wan seemed to be fully capable of doing at the moment was shielding from his master. Qui-Gon knew nothing of his padawan's battles…with enough practice, Obi-Wan had mastered blocking all signs and alerts he might send to the elder Jedi – either through the training bond or the Force itself. He had to. Qui-Gon could never find out.  
  
Obi-Wan's hands clutched the cold metal as the invisible demon attacking his stomach returned for another go at it. The padawan unconsciously double checked his shields before retching as silently as possible into the steel bowl.  
  
When he was finished, he leaned back weakly against the wall, bringing a trembling hand up to wipe his mouth. What little color there was in his face when he entered the 'fresher had long since fled; the padawan's skin nearing the pallor of his white/dusted grey sleep tunic.  
  
Obi-Wan allowed his body to go slack and closed his eyes, silently reassuring himself. It will all be over soon. You'll survive, it isn't that bad.  
  
You'll feel fine by morning.  
  
  
  
Just a small lead in. The rest of the chapters will definitely be longer. Know exactly where this one is going, so I won't be spending most of my time planning, so you won't be spending most of your time waiting. What do you think of it so far? What do you think the Obi issue is? =) lol, now all of you be good lil Jedi and review! 


	2. The Morning After

Title: No Other Choice  
  
Author: Antigone  
  
See first chapter to entire information  
  
Thanx to all who reviewed, you guys are sweet! Hmmm, morning sickness, huh? Well, maybe if I make a few tweeks…lol  
  
* * *  
  
"Obi-Wan."  
  
No answer.  
  
"Obi-Wan!"  
  
Qui-Gon palmed open the door to his padawan's room, sighing at the red fuzz tipped lump almost entirely hidden under the white sheets. It was half- past the eighth hour for Force's sake!  
  
Qui-Gon strode over to the sleep couch, grabbed hold of a corner of the tangled mess of bedding, and yanked it off his slumbering apprentice. Obi- Wan mumbled incoherently before curling into a tighter ball and burrowing his head deeper into the pillow.  
  
Qui-Gon chuckled softly at the boy's instinctive attempt to maintain some of his previous warmth and gave a quick tug on the braid which lay limply across Obi-Wan's bare neck. The Jedi master was mildly surprised that his padawan wasn't wearing his sleep tunic and, glancing around the small room, found it crumpled and bunched up in the corner next to the door.  
  
You would think, Qui-Gon mused, that, after five years, either I would learn to accept my padawan's living habits or he would learn to pick up his clothes. Qui-Gon smirked, why I held to that ridiculous hope still remains a mystery.  
  
Another jerk of the braid and Obi-Wan responded audibly – with semi-words, but audibly.  
  
"Mmmm…wha?"  
  
"Up, padawan! Up!" Qui-Gon smiled slightly as Obi-Wan lifted his head a little, turning a bleary eye towards his master before digging his face deeper into the pillow.  
  
Turning to leave, Qui-Gon called over his shoulder, "Obi-Wan, I want you up and ready." The master snatched the wrinkled sleep tunic from its corner and flung it on top of its owner's bare back, "Now."  
  
Qui-Gon palmed open the door and walked out, confident, as the door swished shut, that his padawan would be joining him at the breakfast table momentarily.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Obi-Wan pulled his head up from the blessed softness of his pillow, unable to focus on anything other than the intense throbbing in his head – his head which seemed to have put on 50 pounds during his one hour of actual sleep. Force, how he just wanted to stay in bed…possibly die, but for now, he would settle to just stay in bed.  
  
Shivering, Obi-Wan made a weak attempt to pull the pile of sheets back up, over his shoulders, but changed his mind halfway through. If he got too comfortable, then he'd give in to the allure of the unconscious – only to be dragged out some minutes later by a very annoyed Jedi master. Not exactly what Obi-Wan wanted to – or, for that matter, was capable of – dealing with in his present condition.  
  
Summoning what little resolve he had, Obi-Wan forced himself up – the discarded sleep tunic Qui-Gon had thrown on him sliding off – swung his legs over the side of the sleep couch and pushed off the bed, staggering a moment before catching himself on the nearby dresser.  
  
Groping blindly in draws, to sick to bother himself with fully opening his eyes, Obi-Wan found – by touch – something suitable to wear, pulled the tunic and pants on, leaving his sleep bottoms lying inside out next to his bed, ran a hand through his ginger spikes, and left his room to join Qui- Gon for morning meal.  
  
Obi-Wan walked slowly down the hall, into the common room, and stopping just before the entrance to the eating room. There was no use in even trying to make himself look perfectly fine – the effort would only further convince Qui-Gon that his padawan needed to be looked over by a healer.  
  
"Good morning, Master," Obi-Wan said, forcing a smile as he stepped into the room, grabbed the plate of food his master had left on the counter for him, and sat down at the table.  
  
"Good morning, Padawan. Nice to see you finally got up," the Jedi said, a smile softening his words. He watched as his apprentice set the plate down at the seat across from him and dropped himself into the chair, slouching down immediately into a more comfortable, but definitely not characteristic, position.  
  
Suddenly, as if aware of the concern sparking in his master, Obi-Wan pulled himself up, straightened his tunic, picked up his fork – but made no move to eat.  
  
Now *that* was not normal. Any other day, that plate would have long since been cleaned and refilled – possibly twice. Qui-Gon decided to broach the subject from as neutral ground as possible.  
  
"Obi-Wan, I knew that you were able to make a mess of your room quite efficiently in daytime hours, but I never dreamed that you would be able to do it at night." Qui-Gon smiled at his apprentice whose eyes had taken to resting on the tzuka bird eggs in front of him, "Why one would rip off a perfectly good source of warmth during the middle of the night is beyond me."  
  
Obi-Wan brought his eyes up to meet his master's, summoning a weak grin, "It was uncomfortable."  
  
Well, that *was* the truth. His skin had increased its sensitivity tenfold last night and the material of the shirt was murder on his chest and arms. He had thrown it off moments after returning from the fresher, not caring to put it in its proper place.  
  
The only response he received from his master was a low "Mmmhmmm," and a scrutinizing stare.  
  
It took all of the padawan's restraint to keep from squirming under the intense gaze. Stop it! He scolded himself inwardly, you aren't an initiate anymore. How do you expect to be of any use if you crumble with just a look?  
  
Obi-Wan's eyes fell on the doorway. He needed to get out. To go somewhere – the actual place didn't matter. But, as he pushed his chair out and began to rise, the master effectively stayed his padawan's escape.  
  
"Where are you going? You haven't touched your breakfast."  
  
Obi-Wan smiled tightly at his master, mentally reaching for an excuse for standing up.  
  
"I was just going to get some muuka juice, Master. Would you like some?"  
  
More scrutiny.  
  
"No thank you, padawan."  
  
Obi-Wan went to the cooling unit and retrieved the juice container, poured himself a glass, returned the juice to its place, then returned to his seat – all at the slowest pace possible. Aware of his master's unbroken gaze, Obi-Wan took a small sip, wincing slightly at the tart taste and praying that his stomach would accept the blue liquid.  
  
Qui-Gon sighed. This was getting ridiculous. If Obi-Wan wasn't going to tell him what was wrong, Qui-Gon would simply ask.  
  
"Padawan, are you ill?"  
  
Obi-Wan blanched, but responded, "No, Master."  
  
"You haven't touched your food."  
  
"I had a large dinner with Bant last night."  
  
Qui-Gon frowned, "Would you like me to fix you something else? Lunch is not for some time, Padawan."  
  
"No, Master. Thank you, but I'll be fine."  
  
Shaking his head slightly, Qui-Gon conceded defeat. He could not force Obi- Wan to tell him what was wrong, nor would he pry into the boy's mind. If it got worse, whatever it was, Obi-Wan would come to him.  
  
"Obi-Wan, I have a few errands to run. We'll have your training session at the tenth hour. Don't be late." Giving the boy a smile only lightly touched with concern – hiding it entirely was no small effort – the Jedi master stood and exited both the eating room and the apartment, leaving Obi- Wan to his daily chore of clearing the table.  
  
Funny, the padawan thought as he carried his and his master's plates to the disposal, I'm usually better at fooling Master.  
  
His mind replayed the words and he grimaced. "I'm usually better at fooling Master." For the past five years – before, even – the one thing Obi-Wan had learned was never to deceive his master, yet that was exactly what he was doing right now.  
  
But, you can't tell him, Obi-Wan reasoned. You know you can't  
  
Besides, what would Qui-Gon think if he knew? Would he understand? Would he be disgusted? Maybe if I just knew how he would react…  
  
But, you do know. That's why you're doing it this way, isn't it?  
  
Checking his chrono as he finished wiping down the table, Obi-Wan noted that it was a quarter past the ninth hour. At least he could get some rest before he needed to meet Qui-Gon.  
  
He dropped a damp dish rag into the sink as he headed for his room, all the while reaffirming his initial decision. He had no other choice.  
  
  
  
  
  
Like I'd actually tell you what's going on! But, please, be good lil Jedi and review, tell me what you think is going on…it's highly amusing =) 


	3. Only 10 Hours Left

For full info see first chapter.  
  
  
  
Well, here it is! The third chapter. Thanx to all who read/reviewed/emailed me, you guys are great! Now, without further adu…  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
The master lunged at his padawan, hoping to catch the younger off guard. When the boy sidestepped the blade, a simple flick the elder's wrist set the 'saber upon him again.  
  
Block, block – parry  
  
The master slowed his actions, deliberately allowing flaws in his sword- handling, giving his padawan a chance to exploit his "carelessness." Noticing the Jedi master's mistakes, the apprentice quickly took advantage of them – at his own safety's expense. The boy left far too many openings, let his guard fall in hopes of defeating his opponent; were he fighting an actual enemy, he would have been dead ten times over.  
  
The more opportunities the master purposefully gave, the more the student unknowingly did. The elder allowed this to continue, waiting for his padawan's performance to hit such a level that, when the apprentice was defeated, the lesson would have an impact.  
  
Qui-Gon had used that technique before. Only once, but that was enough. Obi-Wan never made that mistake again, not after the particularly humiliating kill-point which he received after flying twenty feet from his training mat and into the middle of another match. Qui-Gon's pride in his padawan soared after witnessing Obi-Wan rise, turn to the knights whose battle he had interrupted, apologize – adding, with a touch of his trademark humor, that, whoever the loser may be, he should feel completely free to blame the loss on the padawan who smacked into him during the duel – walk over, drop down onto their own mat, and wait expectantly for the deserved kill-point. Then, he felt pride; now, as he watched the master/padawan team spar, he felt a surge of annoyance.  
  
He padawan was late.  
  
Checking the chrono for the umpteenth time, Qui-Gon noted that another thirty-three seconds had passed. It was eleven minutes and twenty-seven seconds past ten.  
  
If I have to go fetch him, Qui-Gon thought, I'd better find him on his deathbed – or he'll wish he was.  
  
,  
  
With another quick glance at the now ended sparing match – the master was helping the padawan up from the training mat, lecturing on overconfidence – Qui-Gon turned to greet the sudden arrival of a familiar Force presence.  
  
"Padawan, what time is it?"  
  
"Ten thirteen, Master."  
  
"And what time were you told to be here?"  
  
Obi-Wan sighed, "The tenth hour, Master."  
  
Qui-Gon turned from him strode towards the mat, Obi-Wan following meekly. Qui-Gon addressed the apprentice without looking back, knowing that the boy was following, "Have you stretched yet?"  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"Fine. We will spar and after, you will meditate on the virtue of punctuality."  
  
Obi-Wan again loosed a barely audible sigh. He had not meant to be late; his bed had just seemed so inviting and, having only slept one hour, his mind could not resist his tired body's desires. Awaking at five after the tenth hour, Obi-Wan quickly donned his workout tunic and sprinted down the hall towards the training rooms only to realize, halfway there, that he had forgotten his lightsaber. By the time he had actually arrived at the training room, his master's annoyance was almost palpable – not only through the bond, but through the Force as well. Steeling himself, he had entered preparing for – and receiving – a justifiably cold welcome.  
  
It would be best not to further aggravate Qui-Gon, he thought; just agree.  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
Each took his place on opposite ends of the training mat; sparing time, same as always, sans the usual warmth flowing between them.  
  
Though Obi-Wan was quickly recovering from his hangover of sorts, being forced to spar against an angry Jedi master, from whom he was certain to receive no quarter, was not high on his list of 'must do's'. Oh, what he would have given to have been there on time! Not only had he to deal with his master's warranted annoyance, but also his mind now had his ill characteristic of tardiness to concentrate on…  
  
Nevertheless, when Qui-Gon bowed , signaling the commencement of the duel, Obi-Wan mimicked his motion. When the master struck, the student parried. Qui-Gon led an unyielding offence, not a result of Obi-Wan's stupid mistake, but rather force of habit. Never expecting more than he believed his padawan could give, even at times of tension between them, Qui-Gon kept his moves quite fundamental, yet flawless.  
  
Parry, thrust, dodge, slash, block - *faster*  
  
Qui-Gon, still keeping his attacks at a level far below what Obi-Wan knew he was capable of, began to speed up his advances.  
  
He believes that I can't handle the higher level moves, Obi-Wan thought dejectedly, that I can't defend myself against them.  
  
Refocusing himself, Obi-Wan again directed his attention on the battle. His master feeling that Obi-Wan could only deal with initiate level attacks was enough of a humiliation; to have Qui-Gon notice that his padawan was also not focusing on the duel would be crushing.  
  
Parry, lunge, block, thrust, thrust, *strike*  
  
Obi-Wan, in an effort to avoid his master's well positioned blade, black- flipped several feet, but misjudged the speed of his opponent and upon landing had to spin quickly to get out of the way of the emerald blade.  
  
Not quickly enough.  
  
Obi-Wan yelped as he felt the heat of the 'saber against the skin of his right arm, stumbled backwards and fell ungracefully onto the hard mat. Qui- Gon hastily powered down his weapon and was at his fallen padawan's side in a moment, previous emotions overtaken with concern for the boy.  
  
Observing the singed tunic sleeve, Qui-Gon ordered gently, "Let me see."  
  
Panicking, Obi-Wan tightened his shields, "Master, it's nothing, really."  
  
"Padawan."  
  
Qui-Gon's tone held no room for argument. Obi-Wan threw a skeptical look to his master before gingerly rolling the sleeve of his tunic up to his mid- bicep, revealing reddened, but unmarred flesh.  
  
Sighing in relief, Qui-Gon placed his cool hand against his apprentice's radiating flesh, absorbing some of the heat emitted by the minor burn. Painful, surely, but it could have been so much worse.  
  
Rising then offering a hand to Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon walked over a chair, and grabbed the two towels draped across it, keeping one and tossing the other to his apprentice. The Jedi master mopped his brow before addressing the padawan, "I think that's enough for today. Why don't we go back to our rooms and get cleaned up?" Qui-Gon paused for a moment, "That is, if you don't want to have the healers look at your arm."  
  
"Healers? Um, no. No, I don't think I will, Master."  
  
Qui-Gon smirked at Obi-Wan's standard response. The only time the boy ever went to a healer was when he was either unconscious or too weak to run in the other direction.  
  
"Very well, Padawan. Let's get out of here." Qui-Gon placed a protective arm around his padawan, mindful of the injury, and the two walked through the halls in a comfortable silence, Obi-Wan's previous error all but forgotten.  
  
As he palmed open the door to their quarters, Qui-Gon spoke, "If you don't mind, I'd like to take my shower first. I have a meeting to be at in half an hour and your classes don't start for two."  
  
Obi-Wan nodded, "I don't mind, Master. I'll just go straighten up my room."  
  
Qui-Gon quirked an eyebrow at this response, but entered the 'fresher without another word. Exhaling a trembling breath, Obi-Wan walked hastily down the hallway to his room, entered the chamber, palmed the door shut and went over to his dresser. The padawan used his left hand to dig through several of his drawers, under-breath curses punctuating the entire search.  
  
Finally, Obi-Wan found the object he was looking for, picked it up, and carried it over to his sleep couch, setting it next to him as he sat down on the firm mattress. He opened the small first-aid box and plucked a bacta patch from within. Carefully rolling up his tunic, wincing the entire time, Obi-Wan pulled up the sleeve to just above the reddened skin – just above what he had shown Qui-Gon – to reveal a deep, angry looking scorch mark – the real result of the 'saber's contact with his skin.  
  
Obi-Wan braced himself before slapping the healing patch onto the offending skin, gasping as it latched itself onto the wound, immediately hastening the healing process.  
  
Obi-Wan tugged the tunic sleeve back down, concealing the bacta patch quite effectively. Checking his bond, he affirmed that Qui-Gon was at present enjoying a hot shower and, more importantly, was oblivious to what had just taken place in his padawan's bedchamber.  
  
Well, Kenobi, Obi-Wan thought, that was a little too close. What do you think the healers would have found had they given you a full examination as Master would have insisted?  
  
Rubbing his temples, Obi-Wan checked his chrono; thirty-seven minutes after the eleventh hour…another ten hours left before the day was done and Obi- Wan could go to sleep and forget any of it had ever happened.  
  
Ten hours.  
  
Joy.  
  
  
  
Soooo, what do ya think? Any clearer? Probably not, lol. Well, you'll get a few more pieces of the puzzle soon…in two or three posts. Now, go be good lil Jedi and review! 


	4. A Bit Snippy, Are We?

Hey all! Sorry for the delay in posting…16 hour days get to you after a while =) I had to split my time between this, watching ER and bawling my eyes out. Thanks to all who reviewed, you all are great! Now, I will post this and return to my depressing little program.  
  
For full info, see first chapter.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Throwing on a pair of pants, Obi-Wan vigorously scrubbed the towel through his wet spikes and, after absorbing enough water to classify the hair damp, he threw the towel in the laundry bin and went over the 'fresher sink. He rubbed his hand in a circular motion across the mirror, ridding it of the condensation then wiping the moisture onto his pants. His eyes latched onto the image in the fogged glass and he wondered why other people, besides those close to him, have not hounded him for an explanation.  
  
He was always lean, the knowledge was nothing new, but his ribs were quickly becoming too countable, his cheeks too hollow, his collarbone too pronounced.  
  
Thank the Force for the Jedi's baggy ensemble, Obi-Wan thought. Without it, I'm sure that right now I would be chained to some sterile bed in the Healer's wing with tubes stuck up Force knows where…  
  
Shuddering, either at his own reflection or the image of him chained to a starch-white healing couch, he took one last look at the mirror – now, almost void of the opaque steam which obscured its entirety a few minutes prior – before grabbing his tunic off the towel rack, opening the door, and clicking off the hololights as he stepped into the hall.  
  
The shower having cleared his head, Obi-Wan began to go over yesterday. It was a night of sheer hell, but no more than he was used to. He had been going to the small establishment for a while – three or four visits, for sure – once every week, and he had grown accustomed to the distasteful side- effects.  
  
The day he was scheduled to go in was the worst, Obi-Wan decided. Not the time after, but rather the time before. Obi-Wan was paranoid about missing his allotted time slot; the second visit he had been a few minutes late – saber practice with Qui-Gon had run over – and he arrived to find that he had been bumped off and was told he would probably have to wait until his following appointment to get what he needed. Panicking, Obi-Wan stuttered that he would wait in case of a cancellation.  
  
"They're rare," the girl had said, somehow making the comment sound flat, disinterested, and pointed at the same time.  
  
Fortunately, one man did not show up and Obi-Wan's waiting was not in vain. As he exited the small side room a half an hour later, he was completely aware of the hushed voices of two female twe'liks leaning against the grimy permacrete wall, whispering that the man whose spot Obi-Wan had taken missed his visit because of his sudden death. The man had died in a hover- taxi on his way to the purposely obscured establishment and the driver, upon realizing his client to be totally unresponsive, had rushed to the nearest medical center, but the man's body was stone-dead upon arrival.  
  
Obi-Wan remembered thinking the twe'liks to be akin to prostitutes, if not so, and that they must have obtained such information from the small, barely functioning radio unit blaring speaking mixed with static into the crowded waiting room, but no remorse – at least not at that time. He was too busy enjoying a more pleasant, yet short lived side- effect of his visit. Rubbing the small bacta patch on the inside of his right, upper forearm, Obi-Wan tugged the sleeve of his tunic (the least "Jedi-looking" one he could find) back into place before exiting and beginning the relatively long walk back to the Temple. His state of euphoric pleasure had lasted well into the night, allowing him to easily withstand a lecture from Qui-Gon for "disappearing for four hours" and the hour of meditation which followed. It wasn't until later when he was lying facedown on the 'fresher floor that he mourned for the dead man.  
  
But, even as he mourned, a tiny part of him was grateful. At least *he* had gotten what he needed. Besides, he reasoned, what if a problem requiring Jedi had arisen? He would have had to be at Qui-Gon's side protecting him, not desperately counting the minutes until his next appointment. He had to remain strong; he had to be a good, worthy padawan…  
  
Checking to make sure his braid had not become undone or mutilate during his shower – he had not found the energy to undo then redo the plait – Obi- Wan grabbed his robe from the hook near the entrance to the quarters and shrugged it on as he checked the chrono sitting on the table next the common room's worn couch.  
  
13:46  
  
His class started in fourteen minutes. Astro-physics – not his favorite subject, even when he was feeling his best, but at least Bant was suffering through it with him.  
  
Slipping into his boots, Obi-Wan walked into his room, grabbed his data pad from the nightstand, and exited the apartment.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"And, as you can see, the velocity at which the cosmic gas particles rotate around the planet Steniuum allow for the…"  
  
Bant poked the silent figure sitting next to her, desperate for a more interesting topic of conversation and, as Obi-Wan was the only one within proximity to annoy, she went for him.  
  
"Obi!" Her whispered called jarred him from the physical state that listening to Master Hukka always drew him into – the point between unconscious meditation and, well, the unconscious.  
  
Turning his previously glazed eyes upon her, he answered, "What?"  
  
"Do you have any clue what he's going on about?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Uhuh, well, what then? Explain it to me."  
  
"No. It's not my fault you don't listen."  
  
Obi-Wan turned back to his previous position – staring at the wall just behind the dull Master – and away from Bant. Bant was disturbed by her friend's behavior; Obi-Wan had a wonderful sense of humor, sometimes keeping up the good natured taunts for entire classes, why not now?  
  
She poked him again, "Hey, what's wrong?"  
  
Obi-Wan turned again, irritation evident in his voice, "What?"  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing, now shut up, I'm trying to listen to him."  
  
Bant almost laughed at the thought of *anyone* actually wanting to listen to Master Hukka.  
  
"No, you're not."  
  
Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed in annoyance, "Yes, I *am*. Leave me alone, I'm trying to learn."  
  
Glaring at her companion, she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, "Fine, whatever. You want to sit there and be an asshole, be my guest."  
  
Obi-Wan ignored her and the two sat in silence, each consumed in his own thoughts – one's of the future, the other's of what had just happened – neither uttering a word for the rest of the two hours of boredom.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Upon returning home after his class, Obi-Wan discovered a brief com-message from his master saying that the meeting was running late and that Obi-Wan should eat, do whatever homework he had, and get to sleep early – oh, and don't forget the hour of meditation on tardiness.  
  
Obi-Wan made dinner – enough for Qui-Gon when he returned – ended up eating only a few bites and recycling the remainder. He didn't like wasting the food, but he just wasn't hungry; tomorrow, maybe, but not today.  
  
He spent the next hour in meditation, resolving, at the end, that he would try to avoid being late for 'saber practice again. He got up from the mat, folded it up, and shoved it under the couch. Yawning, Obi-Wan rubbed his knees as he sat down on the couch and grabbed his data pad from the table.  
  
Halfway through his physics homework, Obi-Wan thought that, because he could barely keep his eyes open, continuing might not be the smartest thing to do as he would just have to redo the problems he would most certainly mess up. He rose, went into his bed chamber, changed into his sleepwear, and collapsed on the sleep couch, bothering to neither pull back the covers nor turn off the light.  
  
And that is exactly how Qui-Gon found him when the master returned two hours later, exhausted, yet willing to forego sleep in order to settle his padawan. After tucking him in, Qui-Gon brushed a light kiss over the boy's forehead and walked to the door.  
  
Palming open the door, Qui-Gon flicked off the light switch and looked once more on the now darkened profile of the sleeping boy.  
  
"Goodnight, my padawan."  
  
  
  
Well, what'd ya think? Be a good lil Jedi, as always, and review! 


	5. Back Again

See chapter one for all info.  
  
Here's chapter five, hope you enjoy! Thanx to all who reviewed, luv ya all!  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Qui-Gon arched his back, attempting to work out the last of the kinks left from yesterday's sparing session as he walked down the hallway. He reached his padawan's room, but paused before he knocked. For the last week, with the exception of the small tardiness infraction, Obi-Wan had been the model padawan; perhaps he could be allowed to sleep in?  
  
No, Qui-Gon thought. As much as he would love to reward his padawan's diligence, the master had another in a long stream of meetings to attend. A warring faction on the planet Xaron, the Melites, had sent a rather overzealous ambassador in hopes of receiving a solution to their planet's issues. Stipulating, however, that the solution to be favorable to the Melites. Qui-Gon, renowned as on of the most successful negotiators within the Jedi ranks, had been specifically requested – ordered – to attend, but even Qui-Gon's cultivated skills could not make any progress with a being who insisted on discussing peace, but refused to make any concessions.  
  
Letting Obi-Wan sleep would not be an option – that is, if Qui-Gon wanted to be sure his padawan ate. Though Obi-Wan's skills, with few exceptions, have not been lacking, the boy was still not eating as he did a few months ago. Qui-Gon used to have to hide food so his padawan would not get into it; now, he found himself throwing away what seemed like more than the two Jedi ate.  
  
Yesterday, Qui-Gon had directly approached the problem only to have Obi-Wan brush it off with a laugh, "It's a silent protest to your culinary abilities, Master."  
  
Qui-Gon shook his head, bring himself back to the present and, knocking on the boy's door, he called, "Padawan, time to get up."  
  
He had to wait a moment before a slurred voice responded, "'Kay, Master. Be there in a sec'."  
  
"Hurry Obi-Wan; wouldn't want your breakfast to get cold."  
  
Qui-Gon listened at the door for a little longer until the noise of a half- asleep apprentice groping for the first available tunic floated out from within. Smiling, he then returned to the table and was joined soon afterwards by a bleary eyed, but dressed apprentice.  
  
Obi-Wan dropped himself into his usual chair, across from Qui-Gon, and greeted the other, "Good morning, Master."  
  
"Good morning, Obi-Wan. Sleep well?"  
  
The padawan took a small bite of a piece of toast before placing it back down on his plate. "Yes, Master."  
  
Qui-Gon glanced at the toast, "Not hungry…again?"  
  
Obi-Wan started at the question, quickly shook his head, and promptly turned his attention to the holovision – seemingly out of place, for it was never on, but a welcome distraction nonetheless.  
  
"…Both mother and child are resting comfortably at Coruscant Memorial. And in other news, we have an update on the case of local politician, Recorn Willoc. As you may remember, Willoc was found dead last month in the back seat of a taxi. Authorities were initially baffled at the sudden death the forty-two year old senate candidate, but results of a recent autopsy have revealed –"  
  
Obi-Wan literally flew across the room, quickly breeching the ten foot distance to the holovision, slapping at the control panel, and effectively removing the offensive image from the eyes of his master.  
  
"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon stood up, pushing his chair back, and staring at his now sheepish padawan. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Ummm, well, master…I figured since, you know, we never watch the holo at mealtime…why start now?" Obi-Wan gave an unsure smile and a small laugh which ended in sigh.  
  
Qui-Gon threw an incredulous look at his padawan before stalking over to the holovision and turning it back on.  
  
"…one was injured, but the fire did cause two million credits in damage. The family is expected to receive aid from the state to help them rebuild. Now, as we are out of time, I'm Hicara Tiliquit with holo five news. Have a good day!"  
  
Switching the holo off again, Qui-Gon turned to Obi-Wan. "Why did you turn it off?"  
  
"Umm," desperately looking for some escape, Obi-Wan's eyes fell on the chrono perched on top of the counter. "Master, aren't you late for your meeting?"  
  
"What?" Qui-Gon turned and checked the chrono, affirming that, while he was not late, he had two minutes to travel up seven floor levels. "Sith!"  
  
The Jedi master turned to leave, but stayed himself a moment, returning his attention to his apprentice.  
  
"We'll talk later."  
  
Breathing a sigh of relief, Obi-Wan responded, "Yes, Master."  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"So, if you take the relative velocity and square it…no, that's not right…cube it? Force! I'm so confused!"  
  
Bant sighed melodramatically and dropped her head to the table, banging it a few times for effect.  
  
"Bant, it's not that bad."  
  
It had taken nearly the entire week, innumerable apologies, and even a fruit basket, but Bant had finally forgiven Obi-Wan. He half suspected the speedy – for her – acceptance of his apology was due to her failing grade on their most recent astrophysics' test and not to a desire to end his pathetic groveling.  
  
"No, Obi-Wan. You don't understand! No, well, I guess you do understand and I don't and that's my problem! I don't see why I have to learn this if I want to be a healer."  
  
Bant sat back in her chair, pushed the textbook away, and crossed her arms. She looked around the now empty classroom and sighed.  
  
Obi-Wan smiled at his friend and commented "Well, what if you're dealing with a substance that can only be administered under certain physical conditions…a decimal point flaw or formula inaccuracy could mean death for your patient."  
  
"Shut up, Obi – and will you stop doing that?"  
  
Obi-Wan jerked his head up, "What?"  
  
"Checking your chrono. You've been doing it the entire time. Do you have somewhere to be or is my stupidity just too much for you to handle."  
  
Obi-Wan's stomach turned. His appointment was in a half an hour. He'd have to leave soon to be there on time.  
  
He took a deep breath, successfully attempting to quell the nausea which – for the umpteenth time that day – rose quickly within him, and responded, "Yes, actually, I do have somewhere to be. I'll check my messages and then be on my way."  
  
Obi-Wan gave Bant a forced smile before rising and walking over the public com built into the wall of the classroom. He typed in his password and window flashed up on the screen.  
  
One new message.  
  
Obi-Wan pressed the play button and waited.  
  
"Padawan, there has been a change in plans. I know that we were supposed to have our sparing session after evening meal, but the meeting schedule was rearranged and it appears as if I will be negotiating – if that's what one calls it when there has been no progress in a standard week – all night. I still would like to fit in our 'saber practice though. Meet me at training room seven at the sixteenth hour."  
  
The voice faded and Obi-Wan was left staring at the flashing message screen, a window asking if he wanted to reply occupying the monitor.  
  
After a minute, Obi-Wan turned to Bant, "Hey, would you do me a favor?"  
  
The Calimarian looked at him skeptically, "Depends."  
  
"Can you tell Qui-Gon that I can't make the sparring session today?"  
  
"Obi-Wan…"  
  
Obi-Wan's voice was touched with desperation, "Bant, please, he never checks his messages. I don't want him waiting for me."  
  
"What do you want me to say?"  
  
He checked his chrono again, "I don't care, make something up. Tell him I'm studying – whatever – I've really got to go."  
  
"I don't kn-"  
  
Obi-Wan walked over and kissed her cheek – effectively cutting her off – grabbed his bag, and ran towards the door, "Thanks, Bant, you're the best!"  
  
Bant brushed a piece of her hair from her face as she listened to her friends fading footsteps. "Yeah. I'm the best, alright."  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"Obilec Karas! Is there an Obilec Karas here?"  
  
The receptionist shrugged and went to cross the name off her list, but was distracted by the slam of the entrance door.  
  
"Obilec Karas? I'm here."  
  
Obi-Wan tugged at the grey poncho he had hastily pulled over his Jedi tunic, struggling to control his breath. Next week, he thought, I'm leaving an hour early.  
  
"Well, Mr. Karas, if you'll follow me."  
  
The woman walked through waiting area, passing a few well known – and apparently frequent as she did not spare them but a glance – faces, and entering a small chamber off of the waiting room. The inside of the smaller room was just as rundown as that of the waiting area. The once cream colored paint was smudged and peeling and the metal chair with a light blue cushioned was soiled and had small tufts of synthcotton poking out of multiple holes.  
  
Obi-Wan sat down in the chair, mentally pushing away thoughts of what type of filth he could be sitting on.  
  
"The nurse will be here soon." The receptionist pulled the creaking door open and left, closing it behind her.  
  
She uses the term 'nurse' rather loosely, Obi-Wan mused. The padawan tried to get his mind off of what he was there for by counting the spots on the wall, mentally reciting Jedi mantras, thinking about the punishment he was going to receive when he returned – anything – but with little success.  
  
Before long, a man carrying a metal tray entered and set it down on a small table. Obi-Wan glanced at the array of needles carefully positioned on the carrier and turned back to the 'nurse.'  
  
"Pull up your sleeve."  
  
Obi-Wan inhaled, pulled up the poncho sleeve, and offered his arm.  
  
  
  
Well, what do you think? Be a good lil Jedi and review as always! 


	6. New Mission

For full info, see first part.  
  
Well, after a long delay, here is chapter 6! Yay! Hope you all enjoy it, next few posts will be a bit more on the action side than 1-6, just to tell you =)  
  
  
  
Qui-Gon massaged the bridge of his nose before turning back to the apprentice in front of him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Bant, but where did you say he went?"  
  
"He said something about tutoring someone."  
  
Bant clasped her hands tightly in front of her in an attempt to avoid fidgeting. She would be an impeccable liar – if it was the tendency of the Jedi to lie – and if she could only keep her nervous hands from betraying her.  
  
"Who?"  
  
Bant cringed inwardly. She had hoped that Master Jinn would just accept the news; then she could go and Obi-Wan could handle the details when he got back. Apparently, that wasn't how the Force intended this to work.  
  
"I believe it was an initiate, Master Jinn."  
  
"Name?"  
  
Bant sighed. Obi, she thought, you're going to be doing my physics homework for the next month! "I don't know, Master. He didn't say."  
  
Qui-Gon looked at her for a moment before tucking his arms into the folds of his cloak, calmly thanking the girl, and walking out of the training room.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Obi-Wan palmed open the door to his quarters, not bothering to call out for his master – both knew of the other's presence in the apartment. Obi-Wan had arrived home right before evening meal, just as he had all the other times he had left the Temple – only this time, he would have to outright lie to Qui-Gon. He hastily threw his bunched up poncho into his bed chambers before walking towards the kitchen, checking his shields, and entering.  
  
"Hello, Master."  
  
Qui-Gon turned from his dinner preparations to his padawan, a forced smile on his lips, "Hello, Obi-Wan. How did the studying go?"  
  
A trace of confusion graced Obi-Wan's features, "Studying?"  
  
"Yes, Bant said that you were studying for a galactic history exam…weren't you?"  
  
Obi-Wan almost kicked himself. That must have been Bant's excuse for him!  
  
"Oh! Yes, Master. It went very well. I should ace the next test."  
  
Obi-Wan flashed his master a smile, not noticing Qui-Gon's suddenly darker visage. The master's suspicions were correct; Obi-Wan was hiding something from him.  
  
"Then I shall hold you to that." The master spoke hardly and began attacking the food in front of him with more strength than was needed. Realizing his frustration, he relaxed, found his center, and turned to his padawan.  
  
Qui-Gon put down the knife he was using to chop the muja fruit, "Obi-Wan."  
  
The padawan, who was setting the table, continued to as he answered, "Yes, Master?"  
  
"Wha-" Qui-Gon started, but was interrupted by the blare of the apartment comlink. Sighing, he left the kitchen and went into the common area, to the comstation.  
  
Hushed voices floated into the kitchen, voices which Obi-Wan tried to ignore as he first finished setting the table, then went on to finish his master's dinner preparations. He was already lying to his master; he would not make himself feel worse by eavesdropping.  
  
A few minutes later, Qui-Gon returned looking infinitely more tired than when he had left. He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes.  
  
"Obi-Wan?"  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
Obi-Wan, now washing another muja fruit, put it down on the counter and turned his full attention to Qui-Gon.  
  
"I told you of my negotiations, correct?"  
  
Obi-Wan nodded.  
  
"Well, they fell through. We have been ordered to go to the planet and continue them there."  
  
Qui-Gon cast a glance at the raw food waiting to be cooked, "And we have to leave right now. Would you mind cleaning up? I have a few more issues to take care of. I guess we'll eat on the transport."  
  
Despite himself, Qui-Gon gave a small smile at the look of complete revulsion on his padawan's face. Obi-Wan was never one for transport food.  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"Hurry. When you're done, pack, and we'll go."  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"One moment, master. Please?"  
  
Qui-Gon checked his chrono, "Obi-Wan, we only have fifteen minutes to get the docking station."  
  
"I know, I just want to say good-bye. In person."  
  
Qui-Gon sighed and waved his padawan off. "Be back here in ten minutes, no more."  
  
The boy gave a quick smile and hurried off, foregoing sprinting until he had turned a corner. He checked her quarters, the cafeteria, and, finally, the meditation area with the reflecting pool.  
  
Obi-Wan called her name across the empty room and ran up to her, attempting to catch his breath, "Bant, do you make an effort to hide from me or is it just something you do naturally?"  
  
She returned his smile and pulled her legs from where they were dangling in the water before standing up. "I didn't know I was being sought."  
  
"I just came to say good-bye. Master and I are being sent to negotiate in," he looked at his chrono, "three minutes. I've really got to go, but I just had to say good-bye."  
  
He reached out and drew her to him, hugging her, and giving a short kiss on the cheek. Obi-Wan agreed to her demand that he com her sometime before turning and walking quickly towards the exit. Halfway there, he slowed and called over his shoulder.  
  
"And thank you, for what you did. But next time, pick a class that I'm actually in. You know I took galactic history last year."  
  
Bant creased her forehead in confusion, "What? What did I say about galactic history?" Trailing off as she realized that she was now alone.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"Dinner is served."  
  
Qui-Gon smiled at his padawan's look of sheer terror as the Jedi master dropped a disposable tray of what the box claimed to be food in front of the boy. Qui-Gon sat down across from Obi-Wan at the small duristeel table and peeled back the clear lid, cringing at the container's contents. He took a tenuous bite and, noticing that it tasted like literally nothing, shrugged and continued eating, albeit slowly.  
  
A few minutes passed before either spoke. Qui-Gon made the first move, clearing his throat and beginning, "Obi-Wan."  
  
The padawan stopped poking his pile of cream colored mush and looked at Qui- Gon, "Yes, Master."  
  
"I know."  
  
Obi-Wan blanched and dropped his fork. Blinking, he responded, "Kno- know what, master?"  
  
"What's going on. Why you've gone missing for hours at a time. Why you're avoiding my questions."  
  
Obi-Wan swallowed, "Master, I…"  
  
Qui-Gon held up his had to silence the boy, "I just have one question. What's her name?"  
  
Scrunching his face in confusion, Obi-Wan responded, "Her name?"  
  
Qui-Gon rolled his eyes, "Yes, Obi-Wan, her name. I was young once, despite popular belief. I know what happens when a boy meets a girl, but I must say that I'm grateful that you have not yet tried some of the stunts I pulled on my master."  
  
Some of the color returned to Obi-Wan's cheeks and the boy's lips pulled into a small smile, "But Master, there is no-"  
  
"Fine," Qui-Gon cut him off, "You don't have to tell me. I am, after all, only your master. I wouldn't understand such things."  
  
Obi-Wan smiled – and changed the subject. "Master, what exactly did you do when you did understand 'such things'?"  
  
"Obi-Wan, there is no power in this galaxy that would get me to tell you that – I have no desire to pull my padawan from a lower level cargo elevator window where he had – somehow – wedged himself quite spectacularly. Now, eat your mush."  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Qui-Gon made his way down the short hallway to his apprentice's room. A disturbance in the Force had awoken him and, finding the training bond completely blocked off, his masterly instincts had kicked in. Finding his padawan's room empty was no comfort.  
  
Qui-Gon's attention was drawn to the small door across from Obi-Wan's room – the 'fresher. Feeling the urge of the Force, he palmed it open and found his padawan slumped over the toilet, retching.  
  
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said softly and dropped down next to the boy.  
  
Obi-Wan lifted his head and turned it to his master. Squinting at Qui-Gon, he mumbled something about hating travel food before turning back over the toilet and throwing up again.  
  
Quickly, Qui-Gon went over to the sink, grabbed a towel, and ran in under cool water. He wrung it out before returning to his apprentice's side and carefully moping the boy's brow and neck, murmuring soothing words the entire time.  
  
When Obi-Wan was finally finished, he allowed Qui-Gon to pull him back into a gentle embrace; the padawan using his master as a sort of back rest and closing his eyes.  
  
Well, Obi-Wan thought wryly, at least I won't be doing this again for a while.  
  
A hope rose in him. Maybe he didn't need it anymore. Maybe he could live without it.  
  
The only thing which dampened this hope and made him doubt the truth of the statements was one word.  
  
Maybe.  
  
  
  
Well? What do you think? Tell me! Be a good lil Jedi and review! 


	7. Hipocrit

For full info, see chapter one.  
  
Well, here's chapter 7…I wanted to get it out quickly when I saw that there has been over 100 reviews =) Only six chapters and over one hundred…You all are seriously the best! Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter…nope, no revelation…you won't get that until Qui does and what fun is it to have him find out quickly? You're confused? Excellent =) Thanx again, luv you all!  
  
  
  
  
  
"Padawan, now, are you sure you're alright?"  
  
Obi-Wan let out an exasperated sigh as he heard – again – what had come to be his master's new, favorite question. "Yes, Master, I'm as fine as I was when you asked five minutes ago. And the seven other times you've asked me that since I woke up. I've been fine for three days."  
  
Qui-Gon smiled, "I'm sorry, Padawan. It's just that I don't fancy sorting out a diplomatic way to apologize to a tribal chief were you to, err…*christen* them."  
  
"Master, it's not funny!" Obi-Wan mock glared at the man sitting in the pilot's chair beside him, a smile playing on his lips belying the harshness the look implied.  
  
"Oh, but it is. From now on, I think that you will be packaging your own meals when we travel."  
  
A buzz from the comlink stayed Obi-Wan's sharp, yet good natured reply. Qui-Gon pushed the button opening the communication channel and spoke, "Yes?"  
  
"Master Jedi, we are prepared for your landing at terminal eight."  
  
"Thank you," the Jedi master replied before closing the connection and sitting back in his seat, allowing the auto pilot to guide the ship farther into the planet's atmosphere.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"Welcome, most honored Jedi," greeted the apparent leader of a small group of three foot tall miniatures of the common humanoid. The entire group, about seven or eight, was dressed in rather extravagant robes of brilliant, deep colors. Gold satin, impeccably embroidered, lined the edges while patches of a material the Jedi did not recognize, woven into the material, gave the garment an ethereal glow.  
  
"I," continued the leader, a being dressed in a deep blue with midnight black hair, almost all tucked under a square shaped blue hat, and eyes to the shade of azure, "am Chief Samaron of the Melites and these," he gestured to the ensemble behind him, "are my trusty lap fargots."  
  
There was a small murmur of obedient laughter though his followers as he went through the introductions.  
  
"And, honorable Master Jinn, I assume you remember Ambassador Arinik?"  
  
Qui-Gon nodded and bent down to whisper in his padawan's ear, "Be wary of that one; he bites." A mental picture of Mace Windu after an unfortunate encounter with Arinik and it was all Obi-Wan could do to suppress what would have surely been considered deeply disrespectful laughter.  
  
As soon as he was through with the formalities, the chief commented on the chill of the air – they had been standing on the landing platform, though to the Jedi the temperature was quite comfortable – and suggested that they all go inside the palace.  
  
The chief entered the structure first, gently, but hurriedly removing the hat from his head and handing it off to the closest attendant, while the Jedi entered next, and the advisors brought up the rear.  
  
Running a stubby hand through his thick hair, the chief fell back to be next to Qui-Gon, craning his neck at the man's height, "Honorable Jedi, you must be exhausted from your traveling. Coruscant and Xaron are not exactly neighbor, no? Customarily, business is handled – at least started – before rest is taken, but the business you have come here on will, unfortunately, not be addressed for at least five standard days."  
  
The chief turned a corner, Qui-Gon following next to him and Obi-Wan two steps behind and one to the side. The elder Jedi looked down to his host, "May I ask why it is postponed so long?"  
  
Samaron snorted, "It is not I who wish to delay it, Master Jedi. If it were entirely up to me, you would be gone by the sunset of the fifth day, but, much to my dismay, it is not. My – counterpart – Chief Polusti of the Nirano tribe seems to have a different agenda. My time is apparently not as valuable as his, and one of his lesser notified me this morning that their leader would not be arriving for five days – at the least." The chief's voice had slowly risen in volume and pitch, his steps had slowed, and his hands, now clenched, were shaking in anger, "He didn't even see fit to notify me himself!"  
  
"Chief, I am sure that he meant no disrespect. Perhaps what is detaining him now was detaining him then, and he was unable to contact you?" Qui- Gon's voice was low and sonorous, giving a calming vibe to the tension and anger emanating from the small man.  
  
"Oh, I'm sure of it," was the response, followed by murmurs of 'prostitutes,' 'pleasure slaves' and exclamations of 'how shameful' from the small group tagging along in their leader's wake.  
  
The chief halted outside of a gilded doorway, ornate with etchings of unrecognizable symbols, simple yet elegant drawings, and a visually appealing border of crude, yet beautiful curves and lines. The man rubbed his hands over his face before calling out, "Zamaro?"  
  
A servant who must have, at some point, joined the group of advisors, stepped out of the crowed, his plain, cream tunic standing out sorely against the advisor's colored robes, "Yes, my Chief."  
  
Samaron made eye contact with the boy – he couldn't have been older than thirteen – whose gaze promptly fixed itself on the grey tiled floor, "I need to relax. Bring me Ara."  
  
Bowing deeply, Zamaro scurried off down the hallway from which the group had come.  
  
Turning back to the Jedi, Samaron looked up at Qui-Gon, "Now, curtosy of my ill-mannered *friend,* I have not had a welcoming meal prepared yet. My thought was that we would not have time for it before…but it appears we do. Would you be terribly offended if the meal was small and simple?"  
  
"No," Qui-Gon answered, "not at all." He glanced at his apprentice who was now standing, hands folded in his robe, at the master's side, "The smaller, the better."  
  
"My Chief," Zamaro panted as he hurried up to his master, dragging a girl behind him. The girl stumbled as she approached, head downcast, but regained herself quickly and bowed. Obi-Wan quietly observed that her hands were bound, not by the standard duristeel chains, but rather by two jeweled, gleaming gold bracelets, connected by a thin gold chain; beautiful, but restraints nonetheless. She was dressed in sheer, almost transparent material of soft purple hues, her stomach exposed – actually, most of her was exposed – and her body adorned with jewelry and glitter.  
  
Grabbing hold of the link between the bracelets, the Chief quickly ended the conversation, hastily ordering Zamaro to take the Jedi to their room before dragging the young girl into what Obi-Wan guessed to be his bedchamber and slamming the door.  
  
With their leader gone, the group of other Melites soon dispersed leaving Zamaro to deal with the Jedi, as commanded.  
  
Zamaro bowed to his companions and asked them if they would please follow him. The boy led them on a substantial journey through winding hallways and bending corridors before finally stopping outside of a simple, but subtly beautifully dark wood door, accented by the red tapestries lining the walls.  
  
"Honored ones, I hope that you find your room comfortable." The small being bowed, "If you discover anything not to your liking, please use the com to alert us."  
  
"Thank you, Zamaro," Qui-Gon said before opening the door. Obi-Wan turned to give a smile to the boy, but the servant was already sprinting down the hall.  
  
The padawan shrugged and entered the room, closing the door behind him. Obi-Wan glanced about, noting, among other things, the fine furniture, the rich, green hangings which decorated the walls, and the dark wood composing the doors and lining the tops and bottoms of the white, hand stenciled walls. Looking to the three doors which branched off of the main room at the far end, Obi-Wan saw – in the two rooms whose doors were ajar – two identical wooden, four-poster beds – one in each – both covered with numerous pillows and satin sheets. The color of the bedding – the only way Obi-Wan could think to describe it – was that of dried blood. The thought unnerved him, so he pushed it to the back of his mind and, instead, turned to his master.  
  
"They seemed a bit hypocritical."  
  
Qui-Gon stopped his scrutiny of one of the many tribal-like paintings which peppered the wall and placed his full attention on his padawan. "Why would you say that?"  
  
"He criticized the other chief for the man's suspected, err, overindulgence, but did the same thing himself, not five minutes later." Obi-Wan spoke with no accusing tone, no condemnation, only as if he was stating a simple fact.  
  
"Padawan, what one knows another does and what he himself does, though they may be the same action, carry entirely different meanings in the man's mind. Chief Samaron sees Chief Palanti's actions as an inappropriate delay in proceedings, but sees his own as a way of relieving the stress brought on by Palanti's absence. Everyone rationalizes their mistakes to some extent." With a final glance at the painting, Qui-Gon headed towards the door between the two bedrooms – the 'fresher.  
  
"Now, though I do suspect that we will be notified when they want us for the evening meal, it might be good if we get ready now. While I clean up, why don't you choose a room?"  
  
Obi-Wan smiled at his master and nodded. Unconsciously heading into the room to the left, he closed the door, locked it, sat on the bed, and put his head in his hands.  
  
Qui-Gon, even when not aware of it, had the uncanny talent of laying the perfect guilt trip upon his apprentice.  
  
  
  
Well, whatya think? Do tell, I'm amused by the guesses =) Thank you all again for reading. Now, go be good lil Jedi and review! LoL! 


	8. Pain

Hey all, sorry for the incredible delay in posting…RL is a bitch…But here it is! Little bit more happening…I'm thinking 5 or 6 more posts before you find out what exactly is going on…this hasn't been beta'd, I'll go over it again later…don't think it's too bad though =) Enjoy!  
  
See chapter 1 for info…  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"And so, I told her, 'My beautiful wife, I suggest you hold your tongue if you desire to have one to use tomorrow.' The very fact that she asked *once* to see her mother was appalling, but *twice*…Soon there will be one less woman to feed – one which was incapable of performing a simple 12 hour work day, nonetheless – and Paraka wants to waste three days to *visit* her."  
  
Murmurs of sympathy echoed in the spacious dining chamber, bouncing off the polished crystal walls and columns, the deep green tapestries which hung from the beamed ceiling absorbing little of the sound – at least not enough to soothe the headache raging in Obi-Wan's skull. Every Melite who circled the crystal table – including the offending wife, Paraka – offered consoling words until the chief's whim was satisfied and the man returned to his dinner.  
  
Obi-Wan was grateful for the silence which followed. As long as Samaron was silent, no one dare speak and Obi-Wan could grasp a small morsel of relief. For seven days, the routine had been the same; the Jedi were allowed to do whatever they pleased during the day, but for the evening meal, they were required to sit with the chief and his thirty-some advisors – and their wives. With all so intent on pleasing their leader through extravagant verbal praise, it was a wonder that Obi-Wan had not suffered from a throbbing migraine days before.  
  
Leaning forward and resting his elbows on the gleaming table surface, Obi- Wan sighed, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. He tried to release some of the tension into the Force, but, as with his other attempts that day, he failed miserably.  
  
He sighed again, opened his eyes, and leaned back, resting against the back of his chair. The chief was going on about something again, but Obi-Wan, quite honestly, could not care less. It was probably just another story degrading to women, or to the commoners, or to the advisors sitting around him – maybe even all three. He had done it before.  
  
Obi-Wan allowed his mind to drift so far from the present that the gentle, questioning touch on his wrist started his body and momentarily intensified the pain tenfold. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited out the pain before opening them and turning to the one next to him. Concerned blue eyes met his, silently asking if the pain was worse – if he wanted to leave.  
  
Obi-Wan gave a wan smile to his master and gingerly shook his head. He was a Jedi; he must be able to push past the pain, to carry out his duty. How would he be able to do it in battle if he could not last through a simple, yet tediously long meal?  
  
Qui-Gon had noticed the change in his padawan's behavior; eyes lingering closed for a second longer than normal, a hand drifting up to discretely rub a temple. The Jedi master had confronted his apprentice and – only after a considerable amount of denial from Obi-Wan – confirmed that his padawan was in pain. Obi-Wan's shields were maintained so tightly that Qui- Gon could not get an accurate reading on exactly how much pain the boy was in, so he was forced to accept Obi-Wan's refusal of aid in releasing the pain into the Force, but he did give his padawan a small hypospray of painkiller – painkiller which Obi-Wan used as soon as his master wasn't looking. It helped, but not nearly as much as he had hoped it would.  
  
Well, Obi-Wan thought, at least I have an excuse tonight for not being hungry.  
  
The padawan, because he could not release the pain, began to concentrate his effort on getting his mind off it. He had not been at it long when something took his thoughts from his headache – only, he wished that it hadn't.  
  
A sharp pain pierced the side of his abdomen, digging deep and quickly spreading through his body, radiating out in short bursts. Obi-Wan gasped at the first stab, but soon regulated his breathing and clenched his jaw as he waited out the pain.  
  
Obi-Wan dared to reach out to his master through the bond only when it had diminished to a dull – concealable – throb.  
  
//Master?//  
  
Qui-Gon turned to his apprentice, momentarily ignoring the chief's newest topic. //Obi-Wan? Are you alright?//  
  
//Master, if you don't mind, I think I'll go back to the room, now."  
  
Qui-Gon frowned and gently probed the bond, only to come up against strong shields, //Your headache, is it worse?//  
  
The padawan mentally grimaced before responding, //Yes, Master.//  
  
Qui-Gon nodded. As soon as there was a break in the one-sided conversation, Qui-Gon interjected, much to the displeasure of Samaron.  
  
Ignoring the glare he received from the chief, the Jedi master began, "Excuse me, your highness, but I would like to request that my padawan be allowed to retire; he is not feeling well."  
  
The Melite chief stared a long time – too long in Obi-Wan's opinion – at the boy before slowly nodding. Mentally, Qui-Gon asked if Obi-Wan wanted him to go with him, but the padawan refused. Even if Obi-Wan wanted his master there to see his weakness, Samaron appeared upset enough with one person leaving during the middle of his narrative. Force only knew what he would do were two to go.  
  
Murmuring words of thanks, Obi-Wan rose, tilted his head towards the chief in as much of a bow as he could manage, and exited as quickly as political decorum would permit. The padawan's pace increased substantially the moment the massive double entrance doors swung shut, his legs carrying him at the speed of a brisk jog.  
  
About halfway through the tangle of deserted halls – all usual occupants were either dining with the chief, or sleeping off a drunken stupor; a common occurrence in the dull lives of guards used more for decorative than protective purposes – the pain returned. Obi-Wan stumbled to the nearest wall, grasping blindly at the red draperies in an attempt to keep himself upright, and loosed a faint whimper. The actual pain vanished in seconds, but the residue kept the padawan leaning for support and gasping for breath.  
  
In a few minutes the feeling had receded to a manageable level and Obi-Wan was able to stand upright on his own power. He hastily checked his shields, affirming that they had held up during his 'attack.' Though, he mused, if they hadn't, Master would already have me at the nearest healer's.  
  
The padawan continued, albeit slowly, down the hallway towards his room, occasionally rubbing his temples or eyes in an attempt to further relieve the pain. Force, all he wanted to do was get in bed and sleep for a year…  
  
"Honorable Jedi?"  
  
Obi-Wan jumped at the address, taking a moment to close his eyes and push the pain back before searching out the owner of the voice. It took him a moment, but – once her remember that his hosts were nearly three feet closer to the ground than he – he found a nervous looking servant boy.  
  
"Hello, Zamaro," Obi-Wan said, straightening himself and giving a falsely warm smile. He wanted to go to sleep, not carry on a conversation with a boy who hadn't looked at him his entire stay. A moment of silence passed before Obi-Wan spoke again, "Is there something you needed?"  
  
"No, honorable Jedi," Zamaro said quickly, "But I thought that…well…"  
  
Unconsciously, Obi-Wan folded his arms into his robe and shifted his weight, waiting somewhat impatiently for the servant to say what he wanted to say. "Yes?"  
  
Zamaro fixed his eyes on the hem of Obi-Wan's robe, "Would you like me to get you anything?"  
  
"No," the padawan answered curtly then, remembering himself, added a bit more gently, "No, thank you, Zamaro."  
  
Zamaro raised his gaze to meet Obi-Wan's and eyed the padawan skeptically before bowing and walking past him.  
  
Obi-Wan sighed, allowing himself to slump as soon as he saw Zamaro turn the corner, and continued his walk, finally reaching his room.  
  
He palmed open the door, but rested against the doorframe for a few seconds, closing his eyes.  
  
"Honorable Jedi?"  
  
"Why are you following me, Zamaro?" Obi-Wan asked without opening his eyes. His patience had run very thin with the servant.  
  
"I-I saw you collapse against the wall, honorable Jedi, and I thought…" The boy's voice trailed off and Obi-Wan opened his eyes to catch the boy's gaze. Zamaro didn't look away, "I wanted to make sure that it didn't happen again, that you were alright."  
  
Obi-Wan's features immediately softened, "I'm fine, Zamaro, but thank you for your concern."  
  
"Is there anything I can get you?"  
  
This time, Obi-Wan paused the think the question over before answering, hesitantly, "Would you be able to bring me a pain relieving hypospray?"  
  
Zamaro nodded, "Anything else? Your master, perhaps?"  
  
"No!" Obi-Wan regretted the harshness of his voice the moment the word left his lips, "I mean, no. My master is enjoying his dinner; there is no need to ruin his night by calling him to tend to padawan with a horribly low tolerance for pain. It's just a headache, I'll survive." Obi-Wan looked hard into the boy's dark eyes, "You won't tell him, will you?"  
  
Zamaro stared at the padawan for a bit before responding quietly, "You have my word, honorable Jedi."  
  
"Thank you, Zamaro." The tiny being bowed and turned to leave, only to be called to again.  
  
"Would you mind bringing back a few of those hyposprays?"  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Qui-Gon sluggishly palmed open the door and entered his quarters. The chief had kept him to the unforcely hours of the morning; perhaps Obi-Wan was lucky for his headache.  
  
The Jedi master set a small bag of food onto the table – in case his padawan, by some shift in the planets, found his missing appetite – and entered the boy's room. Not wanting to turn on the light, Qui-Gon found his way to the bed by way of the illumination spilling in through the open door.  
  
His padawan slept peacefully; still dressed, but peaceful. Glancing to the nightstand, Qui-Gon smirked. At least the boy had remembered to remove his lightsaber.  
  
Next to the weapon was a hypospray container. The master picked it up, noting with satisfaction that it was empty. Obi-Wan was subjecting himself to needless suffering when he refused to take it; why go through the pain when he didn't need to?  
  
Qui-Gon pulled up the red sheets, which had worked their way down to Obi- Wan's waist and brushed the braid from his padawan's face.  
  
"Stubborn boy," he muttered affectionately, rubbing his hand gently though this padawan's spiky hair.  
  
With a final smile at the sleeping figure, Qui-Gon turned and left, absently dropping the hypospray into the waste bin – next to several other empty hypospray containers – closing the door behind him.  
  
  
  
Well? Tell me what you think! Be a good lil Jedi and review! 


	9. Family Ties

So sorry for the horribly long delay! I just got caught up with Darth RL and could not free myself until now (well, yesterday. Ff.net wasn't letting me past the main page)…My week has been definitely one to remember though…yesterday I gave a girl a concussion. Not purposely, of course, but still, not a good day. Anyway, I'm not really in love with this chapter, but it's sort of important to the plot, and it's a bit longer than usual =) so…  
  
Oh, and by the way, I can't remember if I mentioned this in any of the recent chapters, but to all the readers: you guys are more than I ever could have hoped for, thank you so much! Every time I come back, even after a week, there's always one or two more reviews and it just makes my day. Thank you all!  
  
And, because everyone is so great, I'll give you one hint to this chapter: Pay attention to the words I chose. That's all I will give, now enjoy!  
  
More info, see chapter 1  
  
  
  
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"Did you really think that I would believe you? Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting? You said five days, it's been twelve!" Samaron screamed as he paced in the spacious sitting room, brilliant red robes swishing against polished brown boots. Each step faster, each step drawing the chief nearer to a full blown temper tantrum – one of the many annoyingly childish actions Obi-Wan was sure the small being was capable of – the flailing of the man's arms simply lending more credence to the thought. "Is it your custom, your *highness,* to keep more than hospitable men guessing as to when you will grace them with your presence?"  
  
"Samaron," a man dressed in rich, deep purple robes, embroidered in silver, spoke somewhat exasperatedly, "I have already told you what happened. My ship's hyperdrive overheated and we were forced to take the time to fix it. It was more damaged than I initially thought and the power needed to repair it was taken from the nonessential operating systems – namely, the comm." The man's voice was decidedly annoyed, but carried with it little of the contempt his counterpart's had, "Despite what you believe, I was not indulging in pleasure slaves for the past two standard weeks."  
  
"Then what would you call *that,* Polusti?" Samaron's sharp gaze locked on a member entourage – the only female in the group. The woman was quite attractive, young, but in pleasure slaves that would be of no object. She wore the finest garments; emerald green robes, impeccably woven and fitted to be both tasteful and flattering. Her dark hair was pulled up into a delicately twisted bun adorned with green jewels – she must be quite the performer to receive such gifts, Obi-Wan thought wryly.  
  
Polusti motioned for the girl to stand next to him and she immediately obeyed. Placing a gentle hand on the young woman's shoulder, Polusti answered, "I would call *that* Nariba...my daughter"  
  
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Uncle," Nariba spoke softly.  
  
Obi-Wan exchanged a look of surprise with his master. The two Jedi had been standing off the side quietly observing the interactions, always ready to jump in should the palpable tensions escalate to something of a more harmful nature, however, they had not expected this turn of events.  
  
Samaron was Nariba's uncle?  
  
The girl bowed formally, her eyes down, preventing her from observing the mask of pure contempt settling on Samaron's features. Nariba did not see it, but her father did.  
  
"I think that we are done, for now, Samaron. If you don't mind, I would like to be shown my quarters." Polusti wrapped a protective arm tightly around his daughter as the girl erected herself. He spared one final glare at his brother before turning and stalking out, leaving a young servant boy chasing after.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
"Well, this was unexpected," the mirth danced in Obi-Wan's eyes as he sat down across from his master in one of the lush chairs of the common room.  
  
"Yes," Qui-Gon rubbed his forehead, "Quite. It seems that we are in the middle of a brotherly squabble."  
  
A small smile fluttered across the padawan's lips, "And we're the parents?"  
  
Qui-Gon chuckled and rose, walking towards the other side of the room – towards his bedchamber. As he passed Obi-Wan's chair, he affectionately ruffled the boy's ginger spikes, "If so, you can be the mother."  
  
Obi-Wan quickly stood and turned, an exaggerated glare burning into the back to the master's head. Qui-Gon laughed again, "Give me a moment, Padawan – I want to see if our mission briefing stated anything about family ties – then we will go visit Chief Polusti."  
  
The boy answered obediently and slowly began making his way to his own bedroom, but sped up his steps the moment Qui-Gon closed his door. Entering, he yanked open his nightstand drawer and quickly grabbed a small blue container – one of many. He placed the contraption to his neck and depressed a small button, sighing as the substance entered his bloodstream, dampening the pain.  
  
He had almost waited too long to take it; another half an hour and Qui-Gon would have surely been able to pick up on his distress. Actually, he had hoped that using the hypospray would remain an occasional action – only to be done when the pain reached such a level that he risked Qui-Gon sensing it. A humorless smile brushed his lips. He didn't need to become dependant on another substance.  
  
Funny how things don't work out the way you want them to.  
  
He tried to restrain himself, he really did, but there are some things even the Jedi philosophy of pain and acceptance couldn't prevent. The pain was getting worse – at least, Obi-Wan thought it was. It could just be the pain seemed more intense after the painkillers wore off, he reasoned, but, when his abdomen began to cramp and his head throb, he honestly didn't care. All he wanted was it to go away…  
  
"Just as I thought," Qui-Gon spoke as he entered his padawan's room through the carelessly left open door. Obi-Wan hastily dropped the used hypospray into the drawer and used his leg to discretely nudge it shut.  
  
The padawan brought his hand up to his neck; trying to remain casual while rubbing away the blood from the hypospray puncture, "What, Master?"  
  
"There is nothing about the two chiefs being brothers in out mission outline," Qui-Gon sighed, adding sarcastically, "Why would they tell us something as trivial as that?" The master took a moment to release his annoyance into the Force, "Come, Padawan. Hopefully, Chief Polusti will be willing enough to fill in the blanks in our story."  
  
Qui-Gon gave him a brief smile, turned, and left the doorway. Obi-Wan waited a moment to assure himself that his master was not waiting directly outside his room before tugging open the drawer and reaching in again. He felt around for a full hypospray container and, finally finding one among the empty shells, pulled it from the drawer.  
  
His hand stilled as his master's voice echoed into his room, "Padawan!"  
  
Releasing a held breath, Obi-Wan responded that he would be there in a moment, brought the painkiller to his neck, and depressed the button.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
The door swished open as Qui-Gon raised his fist to knock.  
  
"Welcome, honorable Jedi," kind – and impossibly tired – eyes gazed up at the two diplomats, "I thought I might see you today."  
  
Bowing, Qui-Gon spoke, "Yes, your highness, we wish to speak with you."  
  
Polusti nodded and stepped back from the door frame, allowing the taller men entrance, smiling at Obi-Wan's need to duck and outright laughing at Qui-Gon as he squeezed his large body through the small doorway. "The architects designed very few of these room with other species in mind."  
  
Thankfully, the ceiling of the chamber was intended to give a spacious feeling and, in turn, gave Qui-Gon sufficient headroom. The chief motioned for the Jedi to follow and led the two into a large, tastefully furnished common room. The small man clapped his hands and two attendants came – seemingly out of thin air – and pulled away two plush chairs – beautifully crafted dark wood, lined with royal blue, but far too small for the Jedi – replacing them with blue, satin sitting pillows.  
  
Polusti gestured to the pillows as he settled in one of the remaining seats, "Please," he smiled, "Sit."  
  
The Jedi obeyed and Polusti spoke again, "I would like to, if I may, speculate as to why you are here." The chief waited for Qui-Gon's approving nod before continuing, "My brother has been…less than forthcoming with you about our relationship, has he not?" Again, the Jedi nodded and Polusti sighed, "He'll never learn."  
  
"Well, if you don't mind a longwinded narrative, I will tell you." The leader paused a moment, arranging his thoughts, "We are twins. Fraternal twins, but twins nonetheless. Because our then united planet ran on succession of the eldest son, my father – a righteous leader – forbid the healer who delivered us to reveal who came first – to anyone, including himself. My father plan was that he would observe his sons and, when his time came, choose the one best suited to rule the planet peacefully. He could then claim the son to be his eldest and not be lying to his people as he truly believed the one who deserved the throne would, by the gods, be the elder – or at least the intended elder." The corners of the man's lips pulled into a slight smile, "The decision to not be told was just an added security."  
  
Polusti eyes which had been shifting from one Jedi to the other, now locked on Qui-Gon, "As my father lay on his deathbed, he named me that son."  
  
Sighing and leaning back in his chair, the tone of the man's voice changed to a more somber, more mournful one, "But Samaron would not – could not – accept it. He sought out the healer who delivered us – long since retired – and kidnapped him…tortured him…until he got the answer that he wanted. That he was the rightful successor to the throne. I am not sure if what the healer said was true; though I am sure he gave Samaron the only answer which would make the pain stop. I cannot blame him…"  
  
Polusti shook his head, banishing haunting visions of the broken man, "Samaron made the healer publicly announce his birthright before throwing him into a prison cell – to a sure and painfully drawn out death. I went down and retrieved the healer and took him to my private medical room, but it was all in vain. The old man was too far gone to be helped."  
  
Silence filled the room as the Jedi tried to picture what happened – and the chief tried desperately to forget. It was minutes before the tale was continued. "A few of my father's close advisors – including my mother – tried to tell the people I was the true leader of the country, but their campaign did not last very long. One by one, they were all killed…the chief advisor, the head servant…my mother."  
  
Polusti's eyes stared blankly. No tears were shed, no waver in the man's voice, only grim acceptance and regret. "They died for our people, for me, but they went unheard by most. The few who did hear – and believed – told others, so I had a growing supporter base, but those who thought me to be the rightful king spent their lives in hiding. Even so, Samaron's secret police killed thousands."  
  
An involuntary shudder ran through Obi-Wan. He had seen so much, but that never made any injustice easier to bear. The chief noticed and gave a sad smile to the boy, "Yes, young Jedi, what my brother did was horrible. So many innocents were lost, but I will not pretend that I did not do similar in the civil war which followed."  
  
"My followers and I fled to the other side of the planet, intent on creating our own kingdom, but were met by supporters of Samaron. We fought, so many – far too many – lost their lives, but we were victorious." This time, Polusti's stare bore into Obi-Wan, pleading for the Jedi to believe his next words, "I am truly sorry for the loss of life – on both sides. Think of me an animal if you will, but please believe that I have mourned them every day of my life."  
  
"Animals," Qui-Gon broke in gently, "Do not feel regret."  
  
The chief looked at the Jedi master, almost gratefully, and continued, "Samaron's killing continued. He struck at all who were close to me." Silence again reigned supreme for minutes before the man went on. He drew a deep breath, "Finally, ten years ago, a peace treaty was signed giving me a portion of the land on the other side of planet – a barren wasteland, but still, a kingdom. The truce held until last year when yarik was discovered in our mountains."  
  
Obi-Wan thought back to his Temple lessons. Yarik, if he remembered correctly, was a rare mineral needed for the operation of nuclear hyperstation cores. A small amount of the substance could power a core for millions of years due to it unbelievably slow rate of decay and high energy give off, but it was nearly impossible to obtain. A large vein of it would mean an overnight increase in a country's treasury of a few trillion credits.  
  
"And now Samaron wants it back." Qui-Gon stated, finally fully understanding the problem at hand.  
  
Polusti nodded and began to respond, but was cut off by the sound of an opening door. He turned to find his daughter trying to sneak down the hallway to the bedchambers. "Nariba! Where have you been?" The chief was on his feet in a second, rushing over to his sheepish looking daughter. "You told me you were going to take a nap in your room!"  
  
Nariba lowered her eyes, "I am sorry father, it's just…I'd never seen as beautiful flowers as I did when we first arrived and I wanted…" She looked up briefly into her father's dark eyes before dropping her gaze again, "I'm sorry."  
  
He gripped her shoulders tightly, unconsciously shaking the small girl in emphasis, "I told you never to leave our quarters without me, didn't I?" When no response came, his voice rose as he repeated the question, "Didn't I?"  
  
He pulled her chin up, forcing her to look him in the eye, tears streaking her face, "Yes, Father."  
  
Immediately Polusti's features softened, "Oh, Nariba, I'm so sorry. It's just…I don't want you to get hurt. You are my daughter and there are certain people who would hurt you to hurt me. I don't want to give them the chance." He hugged her to him then released her, giving a slight smile and gently wiping tears from her cheeks, "Now, go to your room. We'll talk later."  
  
Both Jedi had stood to the side, quiet observers of the tender moment. As Nariba ran off to her bedchambers, Polusti turned to them and apologized for what had just happened, "I've lost so much; I couldn't bear to lose her too."  
  
Qui-Gon gave an understanding smile, "I know how you feel, your highness," the master spared a quick glance at his apprentice, "And it is perfectly alright. And I thank you for your valuable input, but I think we have taken up enough of your time as is. Padawan?" Qui-Gon turned to his apprentice, motioned for Obi-Wan to follow, then walked towards the door.  
  
  
  
Did it sux? I would love to hear your comments! All you readers are spectacular! Thank you so much, but don't forget, be a good lil Jedi and review! 


	10. Negotiations

Hi all! Wow, wasn't that an interesting few weeks? For all of you who are still here, here is chapter 10.  
  
Oh! And (incoming shameless self-promo) I have a new fic out. The Depth of Obsession. Same type deal, Obi, Qui, eventual pain.If you finish this and have a spare minute (and, of course, want to) check it out. (end self- promo)  
  
And lighted eagle, thanks for wanting to print it =) I have absolutely no objections.  
  
Now, with that small issue out of the way, on we go.  
  
"No. No deal, Samaron."  
  
The small man scoffed, "I think that I am being *more* than reasonable, brother. After all, we both know that none of the planet actually belongs to you. I just made it appear as if you were leader of that land to appease the small minority bent on having you as their chief." Samaron leaned forward, his hands clutching the edge of the small crystal table, his dark eyes fixed on the man sitting across from him, "I am offering you - and, mind you, I don't have to offer anything - everything you had. The only difference is that I would mine the Yarik. You would not have to pay the cost of labor and machinery, and you would still get a hundredth of a percent of the profits. It actually works out to your benefit."  
  
Polusti shook his head, "No. I will not do that. Our treaty gave me full rights to that land. At the time, you thought you were giving me the planet's most inhabitable area. It's not my fault that you did not anticipate it to be the planet's largest asset. No, I will not give in."  
  
"Oh, come off it, Polusti! You know I will have that land, one way or another." Samaron's voice had lost its semblance of calm, "With the amount of credits I would give you, you could live ten lifetimes without want!"  
  
"But what about my people?" Polusti stood, fists clenched, "How will they *benefit*? Yes, it is enough to give me and mine a life of luxury, but what about them?"  
  
Samaron laughed, "Do they really matter? Each of us is in this for ourselves, not for everyone else. To ensure our own survival, we cannot be overly concerned with the lives of others." He smirked, "Hell, as long as they pay their taxes, I couldn't care less if they spiced themselves into a stupor daily. Did you learn nothing from our childhood? Sometimes, to get what is best for you, you have to," he paused, "put your own progress in front of the progress of others."  
  
"Like you did our mother?" Polusti growled, unsuccessful in removing ten years of hate from his voice.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
Both leaders were now standing, glaring at the other - and Obi-Wan paused for a moment to thank the Force for that table between the two. The two Jedi stood against the wall, silently observing - as they had been rather forcefully instructed. Samaron, before he entered the conference room, called the two aside and - with a group of bodyguards equipped with blasters strapped on in painfully obvious places - suggested that they might wish to be, as he put it, "flias on the wall."  
  
They had both suspected that their presence was mainly for show by then, anyway. An intimidation tactic - not a very successful one, considering Polusti trusted the Jedi to protect his daughter, the fragile, but impossibly stubborn girl who insisted on attending the negotiation - and a form of decoration which he had shown to his adoring advisors, without fail, every dinner meal for the past three weeks.  
  
The girl sat next to her father, face placid, but emotions raging. Fear, the predominant one, rolling off of her in waves; fear for her father, fear for the bodyguards poised behind her, poised to defend both father and daughter, fear for her people, fear for her uncle and his bodyguards, even fear for the Jedi, but - surprisingly - no fear for herself.  
  
An uncomfortable silence blanketed the room as the brothers, without words, each vied for dominance over the other. In the end - and Qui-Gon would never be sure which side broke the quiet - the smallest sound, preceded by a screeching warning from the Force, shattered it.  
  
With a click - signaling the activation of a blaster - a new war had begun.  
  
All occupants of the chamber were acutely aware of the origin of the sound, but there was a slight hesitation - from both parties. It was as if no one came to the meeting with the actual intention - or conscious thought - of using their weapons, that is, sans one.  
  
Samaron glanced around the room - from his bodyguards, to his brother's, to the Jedi standing apparently quite calmly against the glassy wall - anxiously awaiting someone - preferably from his entourage - to make the first move.  
  
He was soon sorely disappointed as no one, not even one of Polusti's men - which would have at least prompted the exchange of fire - made any gesture vaguely resembling a threat. The sudden stalemate seemed to absolutely infuriate the diminutive man as he snatched a blaster from the holster strapped diagonally across the guard to his right and, momentarily fumbling to turn on the weapon to which he was infinitely unaccustomed, hastily raised it to eye level and took a sort of blind aim. His shot - though, missing the target of his brother by a good four meters - still posed the need for retaliatory response and, almost before the Jedi had ignited their 'sabers, the small room was engulfed in blaster bolts.  
  
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon voice rose over the deafening roar of the combined weapons, "protect Nariba."  
  
The padawan nodded slightly and began to inch across the chamber, deflecting innumerable bolts as he went. His aim had to be precise; the beams, if rebounded to the crystalline walls - or floors, ceilings, table and chairs for that matter - would simply ricochet off in another direction and undoubtedly cause more problems in the long run. Instead, he had to either hit the shooters - preferably with a debilitating and not mortal wound - or hit the once fine, now scorched tapestries draped down the walls. They would not last forever, though, and with every shot, the target cloth was burned away, leaving sentient marks - and rather small sentient marks, at that - the only other option.  
  
And all these difficulties were in addition to his own steadily waning strength.  
  
He had recently tried to limit himself to three painkiller "breaks" a day - two or three hyposprays per "break," - and when he could, maybe two, but the pain was increasing exponentially with every passing day. The hyposprays helped as he could not seem to release much into the Force, but they left his muscles slack, ill equipped for any type of battle - a point which, until then, hadn't been much of an issue. He silently thanked whatever gods might be listening for his lack of painkillers that day - though while searching through drawers, shaking empty containers, hoping to find a blessed full one, it was the same gods he had cursed.  
  
Yet despite the lack of nerve-numbing substances coursing though his veins, his body was tiring. Be it from pain or lack of use, Obi-Wan knew that he could not go on fighting forever. Get the girl and get her out. That was the only way to end this - or, at least, his part in this. The padawan inwardly smiled despite the situation. Perhaps this would end their mission. Perhaps the Council would deem the planet unsuitable for Jedi contact and he and his master could go back to the Temple - and he could resume his normal weekly schedule.  
  
Either that or they would be staying indefinitely.  
  
Turning so to better see the girl, Obi-Wan thankfully noted that Polusti had the same idea as the apprentice and was attempting to discretely usher his daughter from the fighting. She, however, refused to leave the room. This decision led, inevitably, to a subdued argument between the royals; the petite girl, hand on the hip of her burned dress, angrily brushing strands of hair from her face as she told her father - who was in a similar shape and whose face had taken on an interesting shade of grawa fruit red - quite plainly that she would not leave his side.  
  
All the while, Obi-Wan was slowly closing the gap and mentally preparing a way to get her - well, them, as it appeared - out. He was at his last few meters when a shrill warning rang through the Force. The padawan quickly glanced about, desperately searching for the source of the alarm. His first thoughts went to his master - who, though engaged in a particularly heavy bout of blaster rounds, was relatively no worse for the wear. He then scanned the perimeter, pausing frequently to deflect the still numerous bolts. His answer finally came as his gaze swept the wall against which Polusti and Nariba were arguing.  
  
Samaron had crept up, somehow unnoticed, behind his brother, blaster in hand. He silently checked the charge before aiming it - and at that short of a distance, even his lacking blaster handling would most certainly prove deadly - at the center of the unsuspecting man's back.  
  
Still too far away to physically help, Obi-Wan screamed at the chief in an attempt to alert him to the danger he was in. His cry was received.  
  
Nariba saw, though Polusti was too concerned for her welfare to notice, Samaron poised, blaster aimed, standing behind her father. A strangled cry rose from her throat as, almost without thought, she shove him aside and, as a result, took the blaster shot intended for Polusti in the center of her chest.  
  
For a moment, she seemed suspended in air. As if the body was allowing the spirit to depart in a manner befitting the sacrificial act - to leave this world standing proud. But, this, as all moments, came to a quick end and the girl's body crumpled to the floor, a cascade of deep violet settling upon her as her billowing dress came to rest on the glittering floor.  
  
Polusti stood, stunned - perhaps unable to move. He simply could not tear his eyes from the fallen angel lying before him. She was the image of perfection - save the blackened wound puncturing her chest - a sleeping princess.  
  
The other, however, was not as captivated by the figure before him - though she did have an effect, else Polusti would have joined his daughter quite a few seconds before - and soon raised the blaster to take another shot. This shot, as the one before it, would never meet its intended target.  
  
Obi-Wan had used the delay to flip himself over the stream of fire and deflect the bolt, though hastily as he had nearly been too late. The bolt caught the 'saber blade and deflected only to rebound off the adjacent wall and return.  
  
Too intent on disarming Samaron - which he did by way of slicing the blaster in two - Obi-Wan did not sense the misguided bolt until it was upon him. The beam slammed into his lower back, ripping tissue and nerves, and throwing him into far worse pain than he could recall. He loosed an agonized scream - through the Force, air, or both, he wasn't sure - and succumbed to the welcome darkness.  
  
Well? Want more? As always, be a good lil Jedi and review! 


	11. Standstill

Hi =) Sorry for the long wait.But, I'm back now! Tosses post. Come and get it!  
  
  
  
Everything stopped.  
  
The youth's scream pierced the air and everything simply - stopped; the yelling, the shooting, all of it - at least for Qui-Gon.  
  
Actually, to a certain extent, the killing did slow. Blaster fire thinned and some holstered their weapons - whether out of actual concern for the boy's life or fear for their own is debatable - but, nevertheless, it was by sheer luck that the Jedi master, oblivious to all but his padawan's pain, crossed the room unscathed.  
  
Or - perhaps - the will of the Force.  
  
He dropped to his knees beside the fallen boy, unsure of whether to leap for joy at the rise and fall of Obi-Wan's chest, or panic at the labor with which each breath was drawn. Murmuring meaningless words of comfort, Qui- Gon's calloused hand sought the boy's small one - lying limply at the side of his unconscious body - while the other found its way to the padawan's chest, barely touching, careful to not put added stress on the abused lungs. The master pulsed the Force through Obi-Wan's injured body, coursing it into the boy before beckoning its return, demanding a report of his apprentice's injuries.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Not nothing; there was something, but it was indecipherable, blurred. The Force waves returning had been - altered.  
  
Frowning, he slid his hand underneath the light tunic, brushing his palm against Obi-Wan's bare chest. Again, he sent the Force and again the same result. The boy's Force signature seemed distorted; it was there - the light that was his padawan impossible to mistake in any form it might assume - but twisted.  
  
Though the discovery was disturbing to say the least, Qui-Gon pushed it to the back of his mind - instead focusing his energies on discovering the outward sign of injury. He would not be able to further examine - and correct - what he felt - or rather did not feel - if Obi-Wan was dead.  
  
Finding no wound on the boy's stomach or chest - but spurred on by the amount of blood which already clung to his robes - Qui-Gon, released the small - so very small - hand and, with a tenderness belied by his great stature, turned Obi-Wan on his side, finally discovering the blaster mark.  
  
Qui-Gon steadied the boy, mindful of the still rasping breath, and laid a hand over the mangled flesh, heedless of the crimson blood seeping through his fingers. Another wave of the Force was collected and pushed into the padawan - this time directed specifically at the wound. Thankfully - oh, how he thanked the Force - Qui-Gon's wave returned with a clear assessment of the injury. It wasn't life threatening - at the moment. Some torn muscle, a nicked artery, a kidney bruised from impact - possibly a few other moderate internal injuries would turn up upon deeper investigation - but Obi-Wan was stable.  
  
Stable, but in need of urgent medical care.  
  
The Jedi master channeled healing Force directly to the torn tissue and the blood-flow ebbed. As the artery's nick clotted leaving only a small amount of blood - comparatively - running from the wound, for the first time since he heard the heart-wrenching scream of agony, Qui-Gon became aware of the world around him.  
  
Hands never leaving the precious boy before him - the boy which he had come far too close to losing moments before - the master raised his head and looked at the scene before him. Most had ceased fighting - only a few random shots to be heard - and fled. Fear of an enraged Jedi master, Qui- Gon mused offhandedly.  
  
But, despite the small comfort in knowing the chance of being shot had greatly lessened, another knowledge pulled at his very being. Polusti - once proud, strong - knelt next to the lifeless form that was his daughter - rocking. His hands hovered over her body, head bent, and on his lips words of an ancient language - prayers for his lost child.  
  
Without thought, Qui-Gon sent tendrils of the Force out to the body, checking - in vain - for some glimmer of life. However - and Qui-Gon had known this - there was no chance of finding such a thing; the bolt had pierced her heart. Her essence was gone before her body hit the ground.  
  
The chief, as if sensing Qui-Gon's gentle probe, snapped his head up, breaking the whispered mantra. His eyes bore into Qui-Gon, expressing such torrent of emotion that it would have been impossible pick out each individual facet, though the prevalent were unmistakable - guilt, anguish, grief.anger.  
  
His gaze rested but a moment with the master before traveling to the apprentice. The man's face softened, the hardness of features melting away, revealing the face of someone who had given his life to a noble cause - and lost all because of it.  
  
They remained frozen for a few moments, Qui-Gon - though he despised what he must do - channeling as much healing Force as possible into the boy so that he might last his master's absence, and Polusti seemingly transfixed by the fallen Jedi. With a final burst of energy into Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon carefully laid him back upon the slicked floor and looked to Polusti, "Watch after him."  
  
Polusti slowly pulled his gaze from the padawan but, when he met the Jedi master's eyes, his confusion was evident, "What?"  
  
"While I," Qui-Gon took his clean hand and brushed it through Obi-Wan's matted spikes, "go after Samaron."  
  
Polusti's eyes narrowed, "No, Master Jedi. I reserve that right for myself."  
  
Qui-Gon shook his head, "It is my duty." He sighed as his gaze fell to the as if slumbering form in front of him, "I must."  
  
Polusti stood, "What you *must* do is get off this planet. Your duty is to that boy, not me. We do not have the facilities to treat his needs. Go."  
  
"But-"  
  
"No," Polusti said fiercely. "I have seen one innocent perish today, I will not allow another." He turned to leave, but paused, "And don't go to the docking bay; I cut the wires in those ships. Use mine - it's right outside the southern entrance."  
  
He started walking again, but stayed himself at Qui-Gon's call, "But what about you?"  
  
Polusti turned slowly, all masks stripped from his countenance, raw pain far too evident, "Don't waste your concern on me," he said quietly, "I have lost more than any man should ever have to.You shouldn't worry about me."  
  
He stalled for a moment, undecided, before walking quickly to where his daughter lay, kneeling at her head. He brushed her dark locks from her forehead and softly - done as if she was but sleeping and he was but a father bidding goodnight to his slumbering child - kissed the pale skin. With a final caress of Nariba's face, Polusti rose, his gaze lingering on the girl for a moment before he pulled a blaster from the billows of his charred robe, nodded farewell to Qui-Gon - his eyes wandering longingly to the small - alive - boy - turned, and strode from the room.  
  
  
  
You all have been great about reviewing.I mean 199 for only 10 chapters, wow! I just have to say thank you. Everyone has been *so* kind, and all the feedback serves to give my day a major pick me up.It's like caffine, minus the expense of Starbucks. And, again, as always, be a good lil Jedi and review! 


	12. The Truth

Hey all! I think that it looks as if I forgot about you.Not so! Here is another chapter, for your reading pleasure.  
  
And, on another note, I would just like to thank everyone who has read this. And double to those who have reviewed. Seriously, reading your thoughts and comments make my day. While writing for yourself is what most strive to do, knowing that your work is appreciated is an added incentive to get cracking. You guys are the best, and more than I could have ever hoped for. Thank you!  
  
* * *  
  
Qui-Gon's eyes followed the chief as he strode from the room, head held high - blaster higher. The man had left the fighting, the Jedi, and his daughter and never looked back.  
  
Wanting to escape during the sudden lull in fire, Qui-Gon scooped up his unconscious padawan, mindful of the mangled flesh, and ran as quickly as possible. The master sprinted through the maze of hallways, not hesitating at intersections, but placing his trust in the Force; there wasn't time for anything else.  
  
Qui-Gon, once far enough from that cursed room, slowed his steps. They were still hurried, without a doubt, but softer, less jarring to the boy nestled in his arms. He needed to get Obi-Wan to the ship - the master could feel the blood dampening his robe - but the padawan's life signature was strong enough to survive a slightly longer wait. The boy need not endure further injury as result of his master's rough handling.  
  
Qui-Gon reached out to the Force, drawing in whatever information he could about his surroundings - about any possible danger. A warning spiked and the master froze, muscles tensing as he scanned the area. There was indeed a warning, but it was not for him. Qui-Gon waited a moment, unsure, before blaster fire commanded his attention.  
  
The noise spilled from a near branch tunnel, echoing out the crystal themed hall from far within its depths. Again, the master felt the sting of regret. To save his padawan, lives would be sacrificed. Those fighting chose to risk their lives, but the loss was made no less lamentable though the knowledge.  
  
Fortunately - if it could be designated such - Qui-Gon's inner debate was abruptly solved. A ripple in the Force, the sound of a blaster shot, and an agonized scream signaled the closing. Pain traveled in waves, accompanying barely audible whimpers. Samaron had been shot.  
  
Qui-Gon could feel the man's pain. The master was spared all but a glance for lack of personal connection, but one need not be writhing on the gleaming floor to be assured the chief was in his death throes. The bolt had grazed the central artery, feeding vessel of the vital organs. The puncture was small, but steadily growing. With each beat of the heart it widened, torn open by the power of the life-giving pump. Blood was pooling inside the body, organs were slowly perishing for want of it - and Samaron was condemned to die.  
  
Perhaps out of a final surge of pity - or unquenched desire for vengeance - Polusti ended what would have been an agonizing and drawn out last moment. Another blaster bolt, this time to the head at pointblank range, and that which was a powerful leader became a mere pile of bones and flesh.  
  
That, sadly, was not the last life doomed that day. There was a moment's pause - a moment of indecision before Polusti acted. A final shot was fired and the chief fell, blaster clattering to the floor. When the tale of the battle, as it would eventually be designated, became a commonplace bedtime story, there was one uncertainty which was so needed to give the barest semblance of a fitting ending that it came to be known as fact; Polusti's body was found with a scorched hole in his chest, and a smile on his lips.  
  
His spirit had already died that day - at least his body could follow suit.  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
There was no time for mourning. Mourning would come - how could he not mourn any loss of life? - but there would be infinite time for the dead. At the moment, it was only the living that mattered.  
  
Qui-Gon quickly overcame the Force urge which first froze him in place and continued on. The time wasted had taken its toll; the padawan's formerly cherry lips had adopted a slight bluish cast and, though the elder Jedi was certainly no healer, he did not believe that to be an altogether good sign.  
  
The master weaved his way through the few remaining twists and turns, arriving shortly at the southern entrance where, as promised, a ship stood - prepped and awaiting takeoff.  
  
Dashing over grass - and through patches of growing flora - Qui-Gon soon reached the small vessel, and sprinted up the open hatch. A sharp turn right led him back towards the tail of the ship and into the vessel's designated sickbay.  
  
The master laid the boy down atop the nearer of two sleep couches, turning the unconscious form onto his side. Qui-Gon frowned at the gnarled area of Obi-Wan's back, now flaming with irritation, and, keeping one hand on the boy to steady him, rummaged through the stand next to the bed, bypassing the more modern equipment for the old-fashioned bacta patch. He peeled it from the plastic wrapping and gently positioned it over the wound, though knowing full well that Obi-Wan was blissfully unaware of whatever pain the action caused.  
  
He sent a concentrated burst of healing into his padawan, specifically targeting the continued bleeding and marrow responsible for replenishing the life-giving fluid. Qui-Gon remained as such for a moment, channeling the energy and sighing in relief anew with each shade of pink that splashed over the disturbingly azure lips.  
  
When he deemed the padawan fit enough to finish his healing alone - though Qui-Gon intended for him to do no such thing - the master left the boy, wrestling pointlessly against the pull of the conscious, and made his way to the pilot's chair to begin the flight sequence.  
  
He returned - after taking-off, breaking free of the atmosphere, and making the jump into hyperspace in record time - to find a fully conscious padawan - gritting his teeth against the pain.  
  
Qui-Gon hurried over, turning the boy from his back to his side, and laid a hand over the bacta patch, numbing the nerves. "Better?" he asked, gently turning Obi-Wan back onto his back.  
  
One glance at the padawan's face, however, and Qui-Gon was certain that everything was not 'better.' Sweat pilled on Obi-Wan's forehead and upper lip, his face pinched and his jaw clenched against the unbidden scream jumping to his throat.  
  
"'S okay, Master," he finally managed to choke out, "Just hurts a bit. I'll be fine." He grunted the last few words and snapped a hand to his abdomen, curling as a low moan escaped his lips.  
  
Qui-Gon sent a questioning tendril of Force, only to meet against the same obstacle, the same fuzziness which prevented him from ascertaining the extent of Obi-Wan's injuries in the palace.  
  
"Obi-Wan, where does it hurt?" Qui-Gon's words gave more of a glimpse at his approaching panic than he would have liked. This was not supposed to happen. He was not supposed to be blind to his padawan's agony.  
  
"Obi-Wan!" his voice raised, "Padawan, where does it hurt?"  
  
The initial response of 'I'm fine' soon became a whispered mantra, all but destroying any chance of the master getting a coherent sentence out of the boy - at least for the time being. Instead, as he did at most times of heightened anxiety, he paced.  
  
The first idea born of the pacing was to give Obi-Wan a pain hypo - and an idea well received as the padawan relaxed almost instantly, content to have the chemical pumped through his bloodstream. The next few - and could easily be classified as one - had the elder Jedi attempting conversation. All, however, met with failure. Aside from the few understandable muttering which spilled from his mouth, Obi-Wan's conversing skills were nonexistent.  
  
Growling in frustration, Qui-Gon racked his memory, trying to discern an explanation for his padawan's - unusual - state. One did strike him and, however a long-shot, he intended to look into it.  
  
The master ceased his pacing, instead continuing the walk to and out the door, his long gate taking him into the common room and to his destination in seconds. He turned to the comm. unit, flicking it on, and typed in a number sequence.  
  
A mechanically automated voice soon rasped through the speaker, inquiring as to where Qui-Gon wished his call put through.  
  
"The main healing center of Coruscant."  
  
A moment of silence before a sentient voice rang over the connection and a female twe'lik flashed onto the vid-screen, "Hello, Coruscant Healing Center, how may I help you?"  
  
Qui-Gon took a moment to pull himself up to his full height, and bury his hands in the arms of the opposite sleeves - a gesture he believed to be his most regal and intimidating - and replied, "I would like to see the autopsy records of Senator Willoc."  
  
There was a pause, "I'm sorry, sir, but we are not permitted to give such information to the public."  
  
"Miss, you do not seem to understand. I need that document." Qui-Gon placed a touch of Force behind his words, praying that the distance between would not cheapen its effect.  
  
"Yes, of course," she replied. Apparently, much to Qui-Gon's relief, the suggestion had gotten through, "You need the document. One moment please."  
  
A new screen blinked up, revealing the report written in what could more appropriately be deemed chiclen scratch as opposed to fluent Basic. Hastily, Qui-Gon printed the two page autopsy findings out, and switched off the comm.. He skimmed the front page, glossing over irrelevant details such as the weight of the Senators second heart and the deformation of his third stomach. He went onto the second, growing increasingly discouraged with each word read, but stopped abruptly at a statement made by one Healer Garonse, about mid-page.  
  
Qui-Gon swept his eyes over the sheet again, assuring himself that he had read it correctly. His muscles seemed to go slack, refusing even to maintain hold on the paper, as it slipped from his fingers and floated to the floor. He stumbled to the nearest chair, dropping his body, now void of the strength needed to keep the master upright, into its plush cushion.  
  
The Jedi then drew shaking hands to an ashen face, leaned forward, resting his elbows, covered in gritty, dried blood, on his legs - and wept.  
  
* * *  
  
Ooops, almost forgot =), but be a good lil Jedi and review! 


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